


these broken pieces

by elphieao



Series: Three Billboards works [1]
Category: Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri (2017)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elphieao/pseuds/elphieao
Summary: “You don’t have to buy me anything or apologize to me every other time we run into each other, you know that right?”Dixon begins to peel the label off of his beer bottle, needing something to do with his hands, and nodded, “Yeah, I know. I just- wanted to, I guess,” he shrugs. Focuses on the shredded paper piling up on the sticky counter rather than the young man next to him, “besides, I definitely owed you at least a drink.”He looks over to Welby at that and sees when the kid realizes what he means. He snorts with a shake of his head, “Oh really? Then where’s my damn straw? I remember that was a pretty big deal at the time.”~~~Forgiveness, redemption, loss, friendship; life in Ebbing, Missouri goes on.





	1. Chapter 1

“So, what’re you gonna do about it?” Mildred asks, keeping her eyes on the road.

 

Dixon doesn’t bother to ask what the hell she’s talking about; they’d touched on it back at mile 300, just past the Missouri-Nebraska border through some sad little farming town that didn’t even have a decent fucking diner to stop at for breakfast. Hell, he’d even been the one to bring it up in the first place.

 

“I saw Welby,” he’d started, talking into his drive-through Mc-fuckin-breakfast. Probably would need a damn Tums after this shit.

 

Mildred didn’t seem surprised. “And?”

 

“And- and he poured me a fuckin’ orange juice, what do you think?” At that she did turn to look at him, from his eyes down to his death-grip on his pathetic breakfast, breaking apart in his hands.

 

“Hmm,” was all she’d said. And that seemed to be the end of it, until now; three hours later when they passed another fuckin’ Mcdonald’s on this shitty-ass stretch of road, and she decided to pick the thread back up again.

 

“What the hell should I do?” he asks. He’d be embarrassed at how that makes him look; him, asking her for advice for one of the worst things he’d even done. Not the absolute worst, not if he’s honest, and it’s that thought that keeps him from taking the question back, from making a shitty remark and looking out the window.

 

She was staring at him again so he continues, “I told him I was sorry. For throwing him out of the window.”

 

She finally focused back on the highway in front of her, but Dixon could see the twist of her mouth. She was laughing at him. 

 

“Well, that’s all fine then. Glad you got to say you were sorry… How many bones of his did you break again? I forgot what the official count was.”

 

Dixon didn’t answer. This time he did turn back to the window to let the spike of rage die down, counting down from 100 like the book said, thinking of the Chief’s note. There was silence in the car after that.

 

Twenty minutes later, though, Mildred was the one to cut through it, “Just, make sure he knows that you actually fuckin’ mean it, ok? And don’t you ever fuckin’ lay another hand on him. Red’s a good kid.” Her voice went cold at the end, same as her eyes when Dixon looks over. He nods but keeps his mouth shut, and they drive on.

 

*  
They don’t end up killing the piece of shit. Neither of them knows if it was the right decision or not.

* 

“What the hell do you want?” Red asked. He looks better; the bruises that had stubbornly hung around his face for weeks were about gone, and the cut stiched up by his eye didn’t look like it would scar. But the way that he moved stiffly spoke to a world of other hurts Dixon couldn’t see. Dixon wondered if he was having to go to physical therapy because of what Dixon and his fuckin’ anger had done.

 

“I- I wanted to make sure that you knew I meant what I said. About bein’ sorry, that it wasn’t somethin’ from the fuckin’ painkillers or anything.” This was a mistake. Dixon had come in on a whim; seeing the light through the new window at the sign shop, knowing (hoping) it would probably be Welby there alone at eight in the evening.

 

But then Welby sighs, looking up to the ceiling before bringing his eyes back down to Dixon’s. Blue, came the thought suddenly; his eyes are really fuckin’ blue.

 

“I know you’re sorry,” Welby started, “I could tell you meant it even when you were drugged up all to hell in that hospital bed.” Dixon could feel the heat rising to his cheeks; the memory of himself crying like a baby, of Welby helping him even after realizing who he was; pouring him that goddamn orange juice with a goddamn bendy straw so he could drink it.

 

Welby shrugs, “Do you need me to say I forgive you? Fine. I forgive you. We done?” He starts to close the door to his office but Dixon pushes in a foot to stop him, realizing his mistake when the kid quickly limps back a step, unable to hide the fear in his eyes.

 

“Fuck- no- I’m sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to do that,” Dixon puts his hands up and steps away quickly, “I just, really wanted to tell you I’m sorry, and I won’t ever hurt you, won’t ever fuckin’ hurt you again, okay? I got anger issues, I know that, a lot of fuckin’ other issues too that I’m workin’ on, but- shit, I’m sorry. I am.” His heart’s beating hard in his chest and he knows that he’s sounding like a damn idiot, but Welby just takes a couple of deep breaths and nods.

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

*

Things are better after that. Not that they’re braiding each other’s hair and gossiping about which fat fuck in the town is screwing another fat fuck’s sister, but it’s better. Welby nods to Dixon when he sees him at the bar, even elbowing the fuckin’ midget to nod to him too, though the dark look James sends him when Welby’s back is turned means at least he hasn’t moved on from what happened.

 

Dixon doesn’t mind. He even finds it comforting that at least one person with a fuckin’ brain has Welby’s back.

 

After a few weeks he manages to get a job as a security guard down at the outlet mall twenty miles out of town, and it puts him in a good enough mood to grab a couple of beers down at the bar before heading home to tell his Ma the news. He’d just started on his second one when he hears a familiar voice laughing; and when he looks over from his seat at the bar he can see Welby playing pool, his already red hair glowing crimson from the neon behind the table. Dixon follows the line of his back as he lines up his shot, trying and failing to not think about a pale shoulder jutting out from a hospital gown, knobs of his spine visible as he hunched down in pain and anger. 

 

The fact that Welby didn’t smother him with his fuckin’ pillow in that hospital room as he slept is a gift Dixon knows he doesn’t deserve, and that’s on his mind when he tells the bartender that he’s got the next round for the two guys at the table.

 

They look over when the waitress drops off their drinks, and Dixon raises his own beer and turns back to the TV quickly; he doesn’t want to know what kind of reaction he got out of them. He’d understand it if they left them untouched for the rest of the night and got their own refills. He’d understand if Welby poured it out on the floor and smashed the glass bottle against Dixon’s head. It’s what Dixon would do, if he were being honest.

 

But apparently they drank them, because after about a half hour there’s a solid ‘clunk’ as an almost-empty bottle is placed on the bar next to his, and Welby is leaning against the neighboring stool, looking at Dixon quietly. Dixon fidgets, glancing from Welby to the TV and back again, and was about to ask if he had something on his face other than a giant-ass scar when Welby finally spoke;

 

“You don’t have to buy me anything or apologize to me every other time we run into each other, you know that right?”

 

Dixon begins to peel the label off of his own beer bottle, needing something to do with his hands, and nods, “Yeah, I know. I just- wanted to, I guess,” he shrugs. Focuses on the shredded paper piling up on the sticky counter rather than the young man next to him, “besides, I definitely owed you at least a drink.” 

 

He looks over to Welby at that and sees when the kid realizes what he means. He snorts with a shake of his head, “Oh really? Then where’s my damn straw? I remember that was a pretty big deal at the time.”

 

The younger man is actually smiling at him, like it’s an inside joke between them, and Dixon is so relieved that he rolls with it; making sure no one's looking before reaching behind the bar to snag a straw and in one motion slipping in down the neck of Welby’s beer.

 

“There you go, princess, one straw just for you.” He lets out a bark of laughter at the answering look he gets as Welby tries to get out the straw without spilling the remainder of his beer out. 

 

“Asshole. You know what? I lied; you do need to by me a beer every time you see me.” Dixon’s still chuckling, so he just motions to the bartender and points at the bottle in Welby’s hand, getting a nod in return as he turns back around.

 

Welby’s eyebrows are up by his hairline, “I was actually kidding,” he starts, but takes the new drink when it's placed it in front of him and brings it to his lips, stopping before he drinks, “But thanks, I guess. Want to come over for a game? I promise James will try to play nice.” He smirks at that before taking a small sip of his beer. Dixon blinks, realizing he’d been staring.

 

“Uh, yeah, sure. Why the hell not? I playin’ against you, or against the midget?” Welby rolls his eyes, “Hey, if he’s gonna try to be nice, you have to make a damn effort too, got it?” 

 

Dixon lifted his beer in a mocking salute of agreement. He could try; he’s been trying for the past three fucking months, he can try a little harder for the length of a game of pool. On the way to the table the kid hands him his beer, “take this back, will you? I’m gonna run to the bathroom.” Dixon takes it and continues on alone.

 

James is leaning against the wall when Dixon walks up and puts the beer bottles down. His hands have only been free a second when the pool rack heads his way; swearing, he’s able to grab it before it breaks his fuckin' nose, letting out a “little shit” under his breath at the smirk on the other man's face.

 

He’s still a bit pissed as he passes in front of James to rack up the balls, but he's stopped by a hand grabbing tight on the back of his shirt. The shorter man looks around, probably to confirm that Welby is out of view before leaning in;

 

“Thanks for the drinks. It doesn’t really make up for throwing him out of a fucking window, but at least I think that we can start with baby steps,” Dixon breathes in; someone was finally saying what Dixon had thought to himself while he was burnt up and laying in a hospital bed. The kid couldn’t have made apologizing any easier for him.

 

The shorter man leans even closer and continues, “What you did to him was so fucked-up that I can’t even figure out how he manages to even look at you. But he does. He looks at you and drinks the beer you buy him and even invites you over to play fucking pool with him. He’s actually forgiven you,” James’ gaze slid behind Dixon; Welby must be on his way back. “You don’t deserve his fucking forgiveness.”

 

He lets go of Dixon’s shirt and moves away to the other side of the table, welcoming Welby back with a “did you get fucking lost?” and they both laugh. Dixon is still a moment longer before going back to his original task and setting up the table to play.

 

He loses to the kid, barely, but doesn’t even mind, not like he would’ve before- he just groans out a “oh, come on!” as the eight ball sinks into the hole Welby pointed to before lifting his arms in victory with a “That’s how you do it,” and high-fives a clearly very tipsy James. 

 

He walks over to Dixon, putting out a hand to shake and a fake-earnest, “hey, good game,” like they were kids after a goddamned soccer match.

 

Dixon takes it, feigning annoyance, “fuckin’ rigged game is what it is. You won’t be that lucky all the time, hope you know that,”

 

Welby just laughs, “You’ll just have to try again some time.”

 

Yeah, Dixon guesses he will, and is honestly looking forward to it.


	2. Chapter 2

It actually became a thing, weird as it was; on nights when Dixon was off or didn’t have the night shift at his security job he would head down to the bar, getting there usually after Welby and James started their first game. Sometimes he would play winner, sometimes he would just grab a couple of beers and shit-talk with them. Mocking the bad turns Welby started taking when he was close to buzzed, being reluctantly impressed with the trick shots James would pull out of fucking nowhere.

 

Slowly the disdain in James’ eyes faded a bit in intensity, still there, but more at a level reserved for the asshole of any friend group- “Yeah, he’s a dick, but you get used to him after a while”. And Welby was as welcoming as he’d been the first time; quick to grab a beer, a game, a couple of fries from the burger meal Dixon had ordered since he came straight from work and he was fuckin’ starving, okay, so grab your own you goddamn free-loader.

 

The realization that he really enjoyed those nights hits Dixon one evening as he’s heading home after one of them- the table had been full and James had begged off so he and Welby just grabbed a small table and shot the shit while they drank. Dixon had discovered early that he enjoyed Red’s sense of humor; what had previously been seen as some pretentious bullshit was actually a dry, sardonic wit that was fuckin’ hilarious when it wasn’t aimed at him.

 

So they drank and they talked and when he got up to leave Welby clapped him on the shoulder with an “Alright, see you next time, man,” that he answered a “Yep, see ya,” and a grin. He was still smiling when he got home.

 

It was nice, really nice.

 

Hell, more than nice. It was probably the best thing he had going for himself in the past decade outside of the police force, and wasn’t that a pitiful fuckin’ thought. 

 

Of course, it was right around when he was thinking that that his Ma up and dies on him; he walks in from work to her still on the couch, head fallen back against the headrest. He’s about to ask if she’d waited there all night for him to walk in when he notices the lack of snoring, the lack of breath. She was gone, goddammit.

 

It wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a hard kick to his fuckin’ nuts.

 

The funeral is out at the graveyard and passes in a blur; they weren’t a well-liked family by any means so it’s a small affair, though Dixon doesn’t raise his eyes for the entirety of it. Just sits and lets the words of the preacher pass over him, really only paying attention when the casket is lowered into the ground, and he has to shuffle up to drop a handful of dirt over her.

 

There isn’t a wake afterwards; that would’ve fallen on him to organize and he didn’t give a fuck for having anyone in their (just his, now) home. So once the service is over he just heads to the bar, removing his tie but staying in the rest of his suit. The people who see him lower their eyes, incline their heads. It’s the nicest reception he’s gotten not just in the past couple of months, but in years. It makes him want to smash something, but he just sits down heavily at the far corner and orders whiskey and a beer. Then another whiskey, and another.

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there when someone comes and drops down next to him. It’s Welby.

 

“Sorry about your mom,” he says. He orders a beer and has taken a sip from it before Dixon responds, first throwing back the drink in front of him, “thanks,” he says without turning to look at the younger man. That’s the last thing either of them says for a time; Dixon gets another shot and downs it, beginning to feel all the rest of them start to hit, and the wave of what happened today washes over him. He puts his head in his hands and tries to breathe through the tears burning hot in his eyes. 

 

His Ma was all he had, really, and now she was gone. She was gone, his job as a cop was gone, the fuckin’ Chief had been gone for what felt like years. It wasn’t fuckin’ fair, but holy shit, there was no way he could deny it was what he deserved.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s saying any of this out loud until he hears Welby shushing him; the kid’s leaning close, saying “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I know it’s not fuckin’ fair, I’m sorry,”

 

The tears do start then; here he was, his Ma not even in the ground 6 hours, getting trashed alone at a bar and consoled by a man he’d picked up and tossed out of a window. Jesus, he could have fucking killed him, what the hell was wrong with him?

 

He’s still talking out loud as Welby gets him up with a skinny arm around his waist and starts walking him to the door. Dixon lets himself be led, but pulls them to a stop and tearfully says he needs to pay his tab. 

 

“It’s fine, okay? It’s taken care of. Let’s just get you home,” Welby continues them on, taking the car keys from Dixon’s pocket and dropping him in the passenger seat as smoothly as he can before he gets in on the drivers’ side and starts the car.

 

It’s still light outside, the sun illuminating the trees, the small homes. Dixon closes his eyes at the passing scenery, feeling nauseous. 

 

“Hey, uh, let me know if you’re gonna puke, alright? I’ll pull over.” Welby starts to slow down, but Dixon just shakes his head and mutters “ ‘m not gonna puke,” and they speed back up. When he opens his eyes again they’re almost to his house, the hills and other homes familiar. Benefit of living in a small town; everyone knows where everyone lives, no need to wake the drunk bastard up for directions.

 

Welby parks the car and hurries over to the help him out, but Dixon already has the door open and is stumbling the familiar walk up to the stairs. If his Ma were here, she’d just snort at him as he walked in, muttering about him being just another “fuckin’ drunk,” before focusing back to the game show on TV. The realization that she wouldn’t ever be saying that to him again, would never say another goddamned word, makes Dixon trip on the first step, going down hard on a knee. 

 

Welby swears and rushes forward, grabbing Dixon by the upper arm and getting him up the rest of them slowly, using the keys he’d grabbed earlier to let them inside the house. They inch their way down the hall, the only words spoken being Welby’s quiet “which room?” that Dixon just answers with a half-hearted point towards the open door in the middle. He’d closed his Ma’s door as soon as he could; he couldn’t look at her things just yet.

 

Once in his room Welby lowers Dixon to the mattress and walks back out. Dixon just breathes, in and out, when younger man returns with a cup of water in one had and the small trashcan from the bathroom in the other. He places the trashcan next to the bed, and pushes the water into Dixon’s hand with a soft “Drink,”. Dixon just stares at the surface of the glass and Welby sighs, “please? Just drink as much as you can. For me? I’ll get the first round next time if you do,” That gets Dixon to move, and he’s bringing the cup up to his mouth when a hand stops him, “Here,” Welby says, and drops a straw into it. When Dixon glances from the straw up to face in front of him, the kid’s got a small half-smile on his face, those blue eyes looking at him kindly. 

 

Dixon drinks the water, and the half-smile gets bigger. When he takes the mostly-empty glass away Welby says, “You know, I didn’t think you’d make this easy; you’re one of the most cooperative drunks I’ve ever dealt with,” and chuckles at some memory that brings up, no doubt involving the damn midget. 

 

The smile on Welby’s face is making Dixon stupid, and he can’t stop himself from telling him honestly; “Probably ‘cause it’s you helpin’ me. I would’ve punched the shit outta anyone else who tried,” He looks down to try and kick his shoes off, oblivious to the silence that suddenly fills the room. He’s able to get them off and moves on to his jacket, of course managing to get his arms stuck behind him with the material bunched above his elbows. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to be ending this awful fucking day with any dignity left, so he stops struggling and lowers his head with a sigh.

 

Welby doesn’t laugh at his for this, thank God, just gets Dixon to stand, swaying slightly, and patiently takes the jacket off one arm at a time. He turns around to hang it up in Dixon’s closet as Dixon tries to fight with the buttons on his shirt next, succeeding in only undoing one before pale fingers move under his to take over, deftly undoing the others. There’s an awkward moment near the bottom of his shirt- Dixon had forgotten to untuck it before going after the buttons, and Welby has to give a sharp tug to free it. 

 

The pull is unexpected and sends Dixon lurching forward, then overcorrecting back a step, hitting the back of his knees on the bed and sitting heavily. Welby had been pulled off balance as well, but doesn’t follow him down- he catches himself on Dixon’s shoulders but stays standing, leaning forward slightly into Dixon’s space. Dixon can feel the other man’s breath on his face, the warmth of his hands through his shirt, and the twist in his stomach is definitely not from the alcohol. 

 

After a beat, he mumbles a sheepish, “.. sorry,” 

 

Welby finally is laughing at him now, but he doesn’t pull away or seem to notice the increased scrutiny, just finishes up the last two buttons and helps again with getting the starched shirt off and hung back up.

 

He pauses though when he turns back around, “You- uh, you good with the belt and pants? I’ll go get more water,” Dixon nods and he leaves the room with the glass but leaves the door open. 

 

Again Dixon is reminded of what a piece of shit he is- he apologized for the worst of what he did, but never said anything about the smaller indignities; crowding Welby, mocking him, calling him a faggot almost every time they crossed paths. The kid probably thought Dixon would pick it back up if he helped the pitiful drunk with this as well.

 

He gets the belt off and the pants eventually, clad in his undershirt and boxers and feeling more tired than drunk. Welby stays out of the room, walking back in right when Dixon is pulling the covers over himself and laying his head back on his pillow. There’s a rustle as Welby puts several items down on the bedside table, definitely more than just a glass of water. Dixon’s suddenly too exhausted to try and see what else the younger man brought in; he’ll figure it out in the morning.

 

“I’m sorry for always calling you a faggot,” Dixon says suddenly.

 

Welby startles, looking at him oddly, “… it’s cool,” he says hesitantly, “I know you were just sayin’ it to be an ass,” the end of his comment being more sure, almost playful; he’s grinning at Dixon again, but Dixon has the abrupt need to make sure that Welby knows he’s serious about this, too, just as serious as his other apologies, so he grabs at the younger man, catching the bottom of his shirt and tugging until Welby reluctantly comes nearer. 

 

The pale face above his is still kind; if he’s upset at having to play babysitter to a drunken idiot, he doesn’t show it. Yet another mark for him that gets Dixon saying with the honesty that only comes from way too much fuckin’ booze, “You didn’t have to forgive me, but you did, and I’m really fuckin’ glad for it. You’ve gotta be one of the best men I’ve ever met.”

 

Welby stares down at him with a stunned look on his face as Dixon just blinks up at him; he’s falling asleep but tries to keep his eyes open- he knows that it’s important that Welby hears this from him.

 

Blue eyes hold his gaze a second longer, assessing, “thanks,” he says, sounding more serious than he had since they’d gotten in from the bar.

 

Dixon, content that the message had gotten through, finally lets go of the material between his fingers and lays back, closing his eyes. The body next to the bed moves away, and there’s a quiet, “night, Dixon,” as the door starts to close. Dixon’s asleep before it’s completely shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language warning; canon-typical
> 
> As before, I own nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Light is pouring into the window and straight into his eyes when he wakes up the next day; head pounding, stomach rolling, and needing to take a fuckin’ piss. The cup of water on his nightstand is completely full, accompanied by two aspirins and an open sleeve of crackers.

 

There’s also a note “Got a ride home from James, drink the damn water. –Red” Dixon stares at the name written in small, neat letters for a moment, running his thumb over the tidy print, before his bladder demands his attention and he slowly makes his way to the bathroom. When he’s done he goes back to the bedroom, sitting against the headboard and slowly sipping from the glass.

 

After he’s sure that he can keep it down he tries a cracker, then two, then figures he’s gonna feel at good as he can get and gets up for the day. Not that he has anything that really needs to be done.

 

He was given a couple of days off from the mall; he didn’t request them, didn’t want to be stuck at home in an empty house with nothing to do, but they let him know when he called to tell them he was going to miss his next shift because he had to plan his mother’s funeral that they wouldn’t be putting him on the schedule again until the week after the service, and that they were so very sorry for his loss. He had been too worn out and distracted to even try and argue with them.

 

Maybe they’d been right to give him some time off.

 

He refills his water glass and shuffles into the living room to sit on the couch. It’s not even ten in the morning; the funeral had been over by noon, and it hadn’t taken him very long to try and drown himself in whisky until Welby had shown up. Dixon had probably been passed out before seven in the evening, another thing for him to feel pathetic about.

 

Dixon goes back to his room to get the crackers and aspirin he’d forgotten, stopping on the way to throw water on his face in the bathroom. He doesn’t dwell too long at his reflection in the mirror, looking instead around the small space. The décor hadn’t changed his entire life; pastel-colored walls and flowery hand towels that his Ma forbade him from using. Most of the house was the same; unchanged since he was a boy. 

 

He could change it now though, he realizes. This is his home; it’d been paid off since before his Daddy died, and it was one of the only things his Ma had to leave him. It was his.

 

Dixon stares at the never-used hand towels for a second before slowly pulling them off the ring and taking them with him into the kitchen, crackers and aspirin forgotten. Heavy-duty trash bags sit on the bottom row of the pantry, and he pulls out the entire box before looking around; he has work to do on his house. He knows packing up this old shit wouldn’t bother his Ma; hell, he was pretty sure she didn’t give a fuck about half of it. Just kept it because that’s what you did; you filled your house with ugly-ass trinkets given by people you saw maybe once a year, just in case they stopped by and you didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

 

After an hour he’s got three bags full to bursting and a half dozen boxes he’d found broken down in the hall closet. There’s a knock at the front door while he’s building them up, and he answers it with one half-done in his hand. 

 

It’s Mildred, holding a Tupperware dish. Her eyebrows go up when she sees it, “Going somewhere?” she asks, pushing past him.

 

“Nope, just gettin’ rid of some shit that should’ve been tossed a long time ago,” he replies, trailing after her. 

 

She walks into the kitchen and starts pulling out a bowl and utensils like she’s been there before, though Dixon knows she hasn’t ever set foot in his house. Must have a similar floorplan to find everything so quickly. She opens the Tupperware and starts spooning out what looks like soup, and no words are spoken until the bowl is done heating up in the microwave and is on the table, the rest having been put away in the fridge. They stare at each other until she rolls her eyes and pulls out the chair, “do you need a fuckin’ invitation?”

 

“I don’t, just not too sure what to make of you in my kitchen,” he responds, but sits nonetheless. Mildred had a way of talking to him that was more like a drill sergeant than anything else; you’re going to be asked questions, but the answer’s already been decided and you hope you pick the right one. He starts to eat, slowly, then when he can tell that the soup hasn’t been heated to a scalding temperature he eats in earnest; it’s pretty good, and bland, and just what his stomach needs after the night it had yesterday.

 

“I am sorry for your loss,” Mildred says. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter but looking into the mess of the living room. Bags and boxes are in every corner. Dixon nods his thanks even though she can’t see it; he knows it looks like a hurricane hit the place- despite not caring about the actual things, he’s packing up over three decade’s worth of memories as fast as he can and doesn’t want to think about it too hard.

 

I stopped by ‘cause I guessed you might’ve had a rough go of it yesterday, was I right?” 

 

Dixon nods again and continues eating, but that seemed to be all she had to say on the matter. She picks up the box that he’d been building when she arrived and finishes it, then moves on to the next one while Dixon just sits and eats. He’s almost done when the telephone rings and he slowly ambles over to pick it up.

 

“This is Dixon,”

 

“Hey, Dixon, it’s Red-Welby, I mean,” the voice on the other end sounds a little hesitant, but more certain as he keeps talking, “I was just checking in on you, you know, making sure you didn’t fall out of bed and brain yourself or anything, screw up any of that hard work I did taking care of you,”

 

Dixon can feel a smile forming despite Mildred not even trying to seem like she’s not eavesdropping.

 

“Hey Red,” he answers, and he knows his voice is too soft, too fond, by the incredulous look Mildred sends him, “nope, managed to make it through the night without any trouble,” After a beat, “thank you.”

 

“Uh yeah, no problem at all, glad you’re good. Just, you know, like I said, checking in,” there’s a slightly awkward pause for a second before he goes on, “I guess I’ll see you around? Not tonight or anything, but maybe later on this week? Think you’ll be up to get your ass kicked at a game of pool?”

 

At that Dixon laughs and is grateful for the joke, “Yeah, definitely, gotta defend my title now that I’m the one won with the winning record,” he steamrolls over Welby’s indignant “-it’s one game!” with a quiet,

 

“Really though, thank you.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

He still has a smile on his face when he hangs up, though he forces himself to stamp it down when he sees Mildred’s expression and tries to explain, “Welby helped me home from the bar last night,” intending to leave it at that. As if Mildred would let him.

 

“’Welby’ now? A second ago it was ‘oh, hi Red’”, she says in a breathy tone, fluttering her eyelashes.

 

“Shut the hell up,” is all Dixon can manage for a retort- he takes his bowl to the sink and rinses it out to keep his back to her until the redness he can feel in his cheeks fades. He has nothing to be embarrassed about; Red, Welby- Red, shit, helped him out. Least he could do is call him his fuckin’ name.

 

He planned to say as much; that he owed the guy for making sure he didn’t follow his Ma to the grave so soon from a drunk-driving crash, or passing out and choking on his own puke. For keeping him from making an even bigger fool of himself out in town. For helping him not ruin the only nice suit he had, even hanging it up—

 

A flash of disjointed memories stop him cold; hands on his shoulders, comforting words, a face so fucking close to his as his shirt was unbuttoned and removed. His apology and declaration of Red being one of the best men he knew.

 

Again he feels like he’s going to be sick. He knows he should say something though, so he finally turns to Mildred, his eyes down, “he kept me from making even more of a fuckin’ mess than I already have,”

 

She doesn’t even bat an eye; “You never worried about that before,”

 

“I’m trying to now.” When he meets her gaze this time he lets her see the shame he feels, knows she would at least understand a bit of it. They were planning to murder a man together; even if they didn’t go through with it it still bound them as one for a time. Her hastily packed Doritos and his shotgun sitting next to each other in the trunk of her car. 

 

She breaks first, looking to the floor, at the scuffs on the cheap linoleum and the two pairs of shoes by the corner. She nods slowly, chewing her lip; “I know. Everyone knows, I think,”

 

Then she gives him a shit-eating grin, “Red knows.”

 

“Yeah, I made sure he fuckin’ knows- I said ‘I’m sorry’ so many times that he told me to knock it off,” he says with a roll of his eyes, and pushes past her back into the living room to keep on working. The boxes Mildred helped build will be for the shit he doesn’t want to see anymore, but knows he can’t throw away. 

 

He’s made one of them the designated “photos of old relatives that I probably shouldn’t toss even though I don’t know who the hell they are” box and is starting to fill it when he notices that Mildred hasn’t followed him into the room.

 

She’s staring at him, her mouth fallen open slightly.

 

“What’s wrong?” Dixon looks around in confusion at the almost-horrified look on her face, but she just keeps looking straight at him.

 

“Oh holy fuck.” Is all she says; she hasn’t even blinked, and Dixon is getting weirded the fuck out.

 

“Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?” he’s sharper than he means to be and takes a breath. Calm, like the Chief said, be calm. 

 

He’s still composing himself when Mildred walks over. She stands right in front of him and looks him dead in the eye.

 

After a second though she seems to talk herself out of saying something, and just shakes her head at him, “Nothin’, just fuckin’ with you. Sorry about that.”

 

He’s too hung over for this shit, and goes back to his packing, “I don’t know what your crazy-ass is talkin’ about”. 

 

Mildred makes a noise like she’s about to start telling him what’s on her mind, with the words ‘fuck’ and ‘you’ being used a good deal, but doesn’t get on with it. Instead, she just picks up her bag and pulls out her keys while she walks towards the door. 

 

Dixon may be an ass, but he remembers his manners every once in a while, and rushes to open it for her. She stops midway through;

 

“You know he tried to get those billboards down, right?” At Dixon’s questioning look, “After all of the shit had started, and Willoughby’s cancer was talked about more, Red tried to get me to take them down, saying that the money I paid for them wasn’t enough, but I knew better. I knew he was feelin’ awful about the whole thing and just wanted to fix it,” she looks at him pointedly, “if I’d’a known what he’d go through for it I might’ve thought it for a second longer. But between you and me, I don’t think that would’ve changed anything.”

 

“We’ve done some fucked-up shit, Dixon. Things I’m pretty sure both of us thought were justified at the time,” she put her sunglasses on and started back on her way “we’ve gotta live with it now- least you get to change your ways while the other people are still living.”

 

And then she’s gone. Dixon closes the door behind her and turns to his home. Suddenly he doesn’t feel like doing any more today- maybe he’ll just lay back down and hope that when he opens his eyes his Ma will still be around. Maybe Willoughby would still be breathing. Maybe he could go back a year ago before all this shit even happened.

 

A nap actually does sound pretty good, and as he lies in bed he continues with that train of thought, but it merges with Mildred’s nonsense. If he could go back a year, knowing what he knew now, how fucking different would everything be?

 

The chief would still be dying; nothing he could do about it there, but he could be a better cop for him while he was alive- be more deserving of the patience and help that had always been given. He would do his best to be more like Willoughby; down to the damn flowery way he spoke sometimes when he would chastise Dixon on his lack of control. If he’d even tried for a second to be more like the man Dixon would’ve never let himself be known as a fucking torturer, that’s for goddamned sure. 

 

He’d get his Ma to cut back on smoking, make a few more healthy meals for her to have while he was working late. He wouldn’t react so badly when she would tease him, and would try to get her to realize that the world was changing; maybe things would be easier if she could change with it too.

 

And then there was Red. Dixon shifts onto his side at the thought of a year ago; what would normally happen if he ran into Red Welby in public?

 

Usually Dixon would be a drunken asshole, Red would be a sarcastic little shit, and the interaction would be nothing more than them insulting or (in Dixon’s case) threatening each other until they ran out of content.

 

Dixon imagines though walking through the doors at the bar and not starting anything with the younger man. Grabbing a beer for himself and minding his own business, turned towards the TV and whatever game would be on- only saying something when Red would come up to the bar for a new drink. Maybe he’d say something about the call the refs just fucked up, or about the damn-crazy weather. Or maybe he would just look over and say “Hey Welby,” like a civilized-fucking person.

 

If Welby hangs out with him now, after all the shit that’s gone down, Dixon doesn’t think it’d be too far of a stretch to imagine that the kid would be willing to play a game of pool with him after a calm talk and a drink (Dixon admits though that he would still need to buy at least one in order to bury the hatchet).

 

They’d get a game going while still being careful with what they were saying; jokes would be followed up with a quick, ‘just kidding,’ and teasing remarks would be cut off, unsure of how they’d be received. But the awkwardness would pass quickly the more they played and drank. By the end of the second game Red would have to stop while he was setting up the balls for a rematch because he was laughing too hard at a story Dixon was telling. His face would be open and his smile would be wide, and it would be because of Dixon.

 

Maybe he would come back over to the small table where Dixon was standing and lean into his side, bump his shoulder companionably and stay there for a second, no, longer; he would stay pressed against him as he reached for his beer and took a long sip. Dixon would follow the sight of it just as he had that first time, but this time Red would notice.

 

The vision starts to shift in tone, starts to heat, but Dixon doesn’t feel it for what it is- he really can see it all happening; Red’s throat moving with his swallow, red lips wrapped around the bottle, his eyes looking around the room through pale lashes before landing on Dixon’s. He would blink as he lowered the beer, would lick his lips a little as he pulled it away, and Dixon wouldn’t stop himself from tracking the movement. 

 

Time skips around as the setting in his head changes- now they’re outside behind the bar where the cook takes his smoke break, deserted with one light and a rickety old stool holding an ashtray. They’d be passing a cigarette back and forth; Dixon forgot his pack at home and the only one Red had on him was behind his ear. 

 

They’d lean against each other under the single bulb; it’d be a chilly night, an early autumn cool front that spoke to the damn freezing winter they ended up having. For a few minutes they would talk about inane shit- work and sports, before falling into an easy silence.

 

Their fingers would touch every time they exchanged the smoke; the first couple of times by accident, but then during one of those times Red would hold his eyes during, and would keep them as he brought the cigarette to his mouth and breathed in. He’d turn his head to exhale and hand the smoke back, only one or two puffs left. Dixon’s heart would start to race as Red would be looking at him for his own inhale. There wouldn’t be as much finesse to his turn as the younger man had had, but blue eyes would drop to his lips all the same.

 

One turn left, and Red’s hand would be out to take it from him, but Dixon wouldn’t pass it over. He’d hold it purposefully away until Red dropped his arm, and Dixon would angle his body towards him while their shoulders stayed pressed tightly together against the cold wall. He’d bring the almost-spent cigarette up to the other man’s lips himself, having to hold his fingers close to the end to avoid the smoldering cherry.

 

At first Red would be exasperated at Dixon keeping the smoke to himself, thinking he was being messed with again. His face would turn to confusion when Dixon started to crowd into his space, clearing when the hand holding the cigarette is brought up. If this were real there’d be no way that Red would let him get this close- to push into his personal space like Dixon had been doing for years in a much different context. But this isn’t the real world; this is the space between wakefulness and dreaming that Dixon is straddling, and he can’t stop the flood of images going through his mind.

 

The atmosphere between them would be charged, would be fucking electric as Red would open his lips slightly for Dixon to place the cigarette between, staying through the breath being taken. The smoke from Red’s exhale would catch between them as Dixon would step further in to stub out the butt in the ashtray on Red’s other side and hold himself there, trapping the younger man against the wall. Something he’d done before, but there would be no anger this time from either of them, and between one blink and the next he’d angle his head slightly up and catch Red’s mouth with his own in a deep kiss that’s met with matching intensity from the other man.

 

Dixon is breathing harder, both in his daydream and in the present; burying his face into the pillow as he does the same into a smooth, pale neck. His hands are pulling material away from a collarbone so that he can get his mouth on it and a phantom grip tightens in his hair. He gasps in both settings, but the jerk he makes involuntarily kicks him back to reality.

 

His eyes fly open and he tries to blink away the remnants of whatever the fuck that was; he can feel that he’s starting to get hard. Shit. He presses the heel of his hand to the front of his boxers, willing the response away by taking slow, measured breaths that work in calming him down.

 

As he continues with the deep breathing though, it takes him right back to a shared cigarette and hands grabbing at him, blue eyes looking at him with want. It’d been a long time since anyone looked at him like that, even in his fucking fantasies, and he has no idea what to make of it. He doesn’t know what to do with the realization that this friendship, this closeness with Red would apparently mess with his goddamn head, turn him fucking queer.

 

It’s gotta be a side-effect of all the emotions he’s been feeling this past week with his Ma dying; his mind probably just got all twisted around and pulled toward the one bright spot in the choking darkness. It didn’t mean anything, and he was going to forget about it. Red did him a fucking solid yesterday with his care and Dixon wasn’t about to screw any of it up with his fucked-up mind.

 

Determined to see this as the result of stress and booze and exhaustion, he turns the other way on the bed and tries to keep his mind carefully blank. The last things he thinks about as he’s pulled under is Mildred, oddly enough, and the words she said to him that were unsettling at the time but now strangely fitting.

 

 

Holy fuck, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

Dixon tries not to think too hard about the dream; he knows that he was lucky to have Red forgive him the first time around, and he doesn’t want to ruin it with some stupid shit from his fucked-up subconscious.

 

 

The first time they hang out though is as awkward as Dixon was hoping it wouldn’t be- he can’t concentrate, can’t keep the thread of conversation going for more than a few minutes. He’s distracted by the way Red grins at him, the way he leans over the table to take a shot, perfectly serious and completely oblivious to the torment he’s putting Dixon through. He thankfully seems more than willing to chalk it up to Dixon still grieving, still processing his loss. He just claps a hand on Dixon’s shoulder at the end of the night and says sincerely, “you know you can call me if you need me, yeah?” and Dixon just nods lightly and makes his way home, the shame in him rising. 

 

 

He refuses to think of his feelings as anything close to a “crush’ or some shit; sometimes if you need release and the only one around is a dude, then that’s how it was- it didn’t mean a damn thing. He’d had that experience his third year at the academy; he was struggling and he knew it, knew that this was the year they would keep him back, knew this was the one that would just fucking confirm what everyone always said about him; he was a fuck-up, a violent drunk, not someone that should be given any bit of power over another person.

 

 

It was the day that it was confirmed to him that he wouldn’t be moving on but repeating this year over, that Dixon took his shit mood to the nearest liquor store to buy the shit whiskey to match it. He’d only taken a few sips of the swill, alone in his room as everyone else was celebrating the year being over, when his roommate David had come back. David was a nice guy, going to be a good man. The kind of kid you wanted walking the streets. He took one look at Dixon’s face and the liquor and just sat down next to him silently on his bed. He hadn’t been drunk, but the memory was still hazy to Dixon; there’d been a rough hand on him, different from his own, and a weight leaning into his side that had actually been pretty comforting.

 

 

In the morning Dave just nodded his head at him, “you good?”, and Dixon had nodded back, and that was that.

 

 

Like he said, this thing with Red meant nothing. Meant nothing other than it’d been a long-ass time since he’d been with anyone. It made sense that his hung-over and fucked-up brain grabbed hold of Red’s smile, his lips. There hadn’t been any others to focus on for far too long.

 

 

That led to the potential solution of finding a quick fuck to get it out of his system, maybe a tourist on a roadtrip up for a quick visit to the bathroom and then a drink for her and her friends, on him. He’d had pretty good luck with that before.

 

 

But two weeks later, when the opportunity presents itself in the form of a bachelorette party for a soon-to-be thrice-married woman turns up at the bar, Dixon finds himself surprisingly reluctant. He loses interest in one of the bridesmaids that had been pawing at him in an attempt at seduction, finding her sweet perfume cloying and hot pink nails garish. He gives her a smile and makes sure she has a full drink in her hands when he gently pushes her away, telling her that she looks great, go have fun with her friends and celebrate the happy couple.

 

 

He heads back to where James is sitting as he rubs off the waxy-stickiness of lipstick off his cheek, oddly embarrassed, and just shakes his head at the teasing look sent his way. He can’t help but be glad that Red wasn’t able to make it tonight, didn’t see the smile or attention he gives to the woman, however fake both of them were. He’s still surprised at the easy atmosphere he and James have when it’s just the two of them; the shorter man was fuckin’ hilarious, with a mocking edge to his voice that used to piss Dixon off, but now he can tell it was a defense mechanism to get himself ahead of any teasing that would most likely head his way. Teasing that Dixon used to do, pretty much every time he saw James, and he’s honestly still as ashamed of it as he is everything that went down with Red.

 

 

He still can’t believe sometimes that he’s allowed to be around them, allowed to come over and drink and talk and smoke and shrug off attention of a clearly trashed out-of-towner who’s still sending him looks from across the way.

 

 

He does his best to ignore her without being a jackass, and just resolves to handle things himself later, so to speak.

 

 

 

Though he regrets his hesitation later on that same evening when he’s lying in bed alone, trying to remember enough details to get some relief, hand in his boxers starting to stroke himself slowly. He imagines that he hadn’t stopped her when she’d suggested going somewhere more private; that he’d taken her hand and walked with her over to the bathrooms. Once inside she’d step close with the confidence and want she’d let him see earlier, and Dixon’s finally hard as he thinks of her pushing him up against the wall and dropping to her knees. 

 

 

 

It would have to be quick, so he takes a second to lick his hand before pushing it back under his waistband and begins pumping with a fast speed to match the pace he imagines she would take, her small hand wrapped against the base of his dick as she takes him in as far as she can. 

 

 

 

He wasn’t hoping to draw this out, so when he feels the stirrings low in his belly that tell him he’s close he just goes faster, grips harder, trying to finish based off of sensation rather than fantasy anymore.

 

 

But his mind needs something to focus on, so he tries to go back, but it’s changed on him; he’s no longer getting blown in the dirty-ass bathroom at the bar, but is lying in bed, exactly as he is in the present; only naked and with a mouth wrapped around him, his hand holding the back of a head as its bobs messily.

 

 

There’s short hair between his fingers that he can’t grasp, different from the shoulder-length curls the woman had had, and Dixon can feel the dread in his stomach as clearly as the approaching orgasm when he looks down to blue eyes looking up at him, red hair illuminated by the moonlight coming through the window. 

 

 

 

Dixon comes immediately; hard enough that his back arches and his toes curl, groaning helplessly before he starts to come down. He lies there panting and pissed off at himself again, scared to close his eyes in case the last image he saw is waiting for him. 

 

 

 

Dixon doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. He had the experience before, didn’t seem to like it enough to want it anymore and moved on. Hell, he’s pretty sure he’s got more experience than most of the liberal hippies running around, preaching tolerance.

 

 

Forgoing sleep, he ends up just getting out of bed and cleaning himself up before going to sit in the living room to plan what he wants to do next in fixing up the place, now that most of the junk is either tossed, packed away, or donated. Red had been the one to guilt him into donating shit rather than just taking everything he didn’t want to the dump; “Wait, you’re just gonna trash it?” he’d asked incredulously, eyes big as he stopped packing an old bedspread into a trash bag. 

 

 

He’d dropped by the Sunday after the awkward night at the bar; Dixon mentioned at some point his plan to fix up the place and Red had nodded enthusiastically, offering to help, looking so damn earnest that Dixon had to look away, feeling like a damn piece of shit. He’d gotten himself under control by the time Red had come by, and he was able to go back to the normal they’d found themselves in before his Ma had passed. Which for them had come to mean easy conversations about shallow topics and not-uncomfortable silences. They tried to stay away from anything that make things tense. For Dixon that was usually anything about the awful shit he used to do. For Red, it was his family, oddly enough. Dixon was dying to ask what had happened to break that relationship up, but he restrained himself for the delicate friendship they’d made.

 

 

“Yeah,” Dixon had answered his question about throwing out the stuff, not really thinking about it. Turns out though that one of the things Red gets up to in his free time, other than reading weird “classic” shit and watching old Sci-Fi shows, is volunteering at the homeless shelter about 15 miles away, “Just on Sundays, if I can,” he shrugged, and they left it at that, but Dixon had put a half-dozen bags in the trunk of Red’s beat-up sedan before the day was done.

 

 

As he sits on the couch in the dark he once again tells himself to forget what just happened. It was a freak occurrence, and even if it wasn’t he wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it now. This thing he’s got going on has been too damn good for him to fuck up. 

 

That decided, he grabs a glass of water and heads to bed, mind carefully blank, and waits for sleep to claim him.

 

*

 

 

Life continues to go on. Dixon goes to his job at the outlet mall and comes home. Goes out running the hills he grew up on, tries to see them as he hasn’t seen them in years, if ever. This place might be in the middle of Bumfuck, USA, but damned if it wasn’t a pretty sight every once in awhile. He’ll get home panting, covered in sweat, and does some kind of home project before showering and heading out to work.

 

 

He doesn’t stop drinking, that would un-fucking-acceptable, but he does cut it back. Saves it for the bar, for the company of Red and James, for a time spent out in the town that he’s beginning to see in a nicer, less bitter light.

 

 

The other people in the town continue to warm up to him, it seemed that word was getting around that he was playing pool with the guy he almost killed; that he’d sincerely apologized to Denise (‘you know, the pretty lady workin’ with Angela Hayes’ momma down at the gift shop?’) and took the tongue-lashing she gave him as Mildred silently laughed at him in the background and just apologized again until she rolled her eyes and just said “fine, I’ll think about forgivin’ you. I can’t do that though when I’m lookin’ at your fuckin’ ugly face, so get the hell out of here.” Seemed like she had though; when he saw her a week later out on Main Street she raised an eyebrow at him as well as a hand (mockingly, but Dixon still thought it should count).

 

 

He didn’t want to fuckin’ jinx himself again, but he couldn’t deny that he was happy; peaceful, really, which he thought might be a safer thing for him to be, anyway.

 

 

It’s about 4 months after his Ma’s passing that his cleaning takes him to the side shed. He can’t remember the combination on the lock, so he just uses a hammer to take the hinges off the rotting wood of the door. He’ll fix it later.

 

 

Walking inside takes his breath straight from his lungs. All of his daddy’s old things- tools, mugs, hunting trophies, are littered around the small space, covered in a thick layer of dust. He walks around with his hand out, softly running his fingers over the dust-covered relics.

 

 

The items inside bring back memories he’d thought he had forgotten; him and his daddy out fishing at one of the streams nearby, him listening in rapt attention as he’s taught how to change a car’s oil or a tire. Dixon blames the dust for the wetness in the corners of his eyes and decides to save these items for a later date, carefully propping the door against the frame and going back inside.

 

 

The interior is coming along nicely; James showed him how to put things on eBay, and he discovered that several of the creepy-ass trinkets lying around had a group of followers dying to collect them. He was able to use the money on some new furniture; cheap, but not obviously so, and paint for the entire place. Mildred helped him pick out the colors for the bedrooms and the living room, but refused to help him with the task on the account of her “not fuckin’ wanting to, sorry,” so it was slow going. 

 

 

His room was done, as was the bathroom (he was able to use the leftover paint from the bedroom and get rid of the awful floral wallpaper), and he was preparing to do up his Ma’s room; make it into a guest room. Or maybe a game room? He wasn’t sure yet- he’d paint it and the living room and then decide.

 

 

He ends up going out jogging instead of fixing something up this time around; finding his dad’s old things was messing with his head, and he needed a distraction.

 

 

It’s a gorgeous autumn Saturday, with the sun not too hot and the breeze not too cool. He heads down the path and just lets himself fade out of his head as his feet start to find a rhythm.

 

 

Jogging had become kind of a refuge for him lately; he discovered that he couldn’t really keep a pissed-off or upset thought in his head as he trudged along steadily, arms pumping and breath no longer labored compared to when he first started. This was the kind of thing he wished he’d known about earlier; how good it would make him feel, how it seemed to help his clothes fit better, looser- hell, he was going to need a new pair of jeans if he lost any more weight.

 

He was going at a steady pace when the path takes him down to the big stream, flowing slowly under one of the old rickety wooden bridges that were all around the place out here, and he crosses it carefully- there’s a good amount of traffic today coming through town it looks like. Idly he hopes Mildred’s shop is getting some good business.

 

 

He’s just reached the other side when someone pulls up next to him and slows down. Though it’s been a good amount of time that he’s used them, his cop instincts take over and he’s turning quickly, hand on the non-existent gun at his hip.

 

 

It’s Red and James, riding along in Red’s car- looks like the fuckers are laughing at having scared him. They’re both grinning widely as James slowly rolls the window down, Red pulling off to the side of the road, away from the cars passing by too quickly.

 

 

“What the hell are you running from? Is there a mountain lion chasing you that we can’t see?” James says mockingly from the passengers seat. Dixon flips him off, getting his breath back.

 

 

“We stopped by your place to see if you wanted to go grab some lunch,” Red leans across James to say, “didn’t know you’d be going all Usain Bolt on us.” Is it Dixon’s imagination, or does the look Red gives him as he teases him have a good bit of appreciation to it? Dixon is aware of the stains on his old shirt, the bagginess of the pants he’s wearing and wishes suddenly, stupidly, that he’d put on something different.

 

 

He clears his throat and leans against the car; overly close to get James’ outraged “You’re fucking sweating!”, 

 

 

“Y’all are a couple fuckin’ comedians, seriously,” He shrugs, looking back the way he came- he was pretty hungry now, “I could eat- think I could hop in the back and you run me up to my place? I need to change,” grinning now, “I’m fuckin’ sweating,” 

 

 

Red’s answer is drowned out by the sudden squealing of tires and a great crash; Dixon turns to look back at the bridge just as a sedan is going over the side, another car sideways in the other lane, clearly having hit it.

 

 

He’s running before he can even think about it, and barely remembers to pull off his tennis shoes before jumping in the water to the car. The driver must’ve had their windows down; it’s sinking so fast. 

 

 

He’s thankful though for that when he drops below the surface and is able to immediately grab a flailing arm. A woman is coming out of the driver’s side window herself, and he pulls her up, glad she hadn’t been stuck in her seatbelt. Thankfulness is dropped from his mind when they reach the surface and gasp in breaths; she uses her first one to scream out, “My daughter!-“ before Dixon dives back under.

 

He squints through the murky water to confirm that only the front seats had their windows down, and he pulls himself in through the driver’s side, reaching almost blindly into the back seat. He feels a small arm under his hand, and uses the center console to get in further. There’s a child in the back, a toddler, strapped into a car seat and not moving. The buckle in the middle of her body clicks open easily, and in seconds he’s got her pulled tight against him and is kicking up towards the surface.

 

 

He can already hear sirens approaching when he breaches the water; he holds the girl up so her head is above as he swims over to where her mother is sitting on the bank, a cut on her face near her hairline bleeding freely onto her dark skin despite Red and James trying to stop it. The body in his arms is still, but after a heart-stopping second lets out a choked cough and a loud cry, right in his ear. Dixon doesn’t care; it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard in his goddamned life, but he tries not to be distracted by the relief that floods him.

 

Dixon just focuses on moving forward, first swimming with one arm then trying to run once his feet touch the clay below, movement annoying slow. The paramedics are almost to him before he’s completely free of the water, and they’re pulling the squirming girl out of his arms quickly. He just sits down heavily and breathes, his clothes soaked through. He can feel the goosebumps rising on his skin but doesn’t feel the chill just yet. He can’t believe that just fuckin’ happened.

 

 

There’s movement all around him; more sirens and more cars and more people and more everything. It’s almost too much for him to take before a warm weight is dropped over his shoulders and a face enters his line of sight.

 

Red’s starting at him in concern, pulling the blanket he’d obviously grabbed from the paramedic tighter over Dixon’s shoulders. 

 

 

Dixon hears a muffled “You okay?” but can’t process it, and the concern in the face in front of him deepens as Red crouches down next to Dixon and reaches out.

 

 

He grabs one of Dixon’s arms and gives it a look, dropping it when he sees there’s no blood and moving to the other. He moves the blanket away as he runs his hand lightly across Dixon’s shoulders, the back of his neck, his collarbone. When he tries to grab the hemline and pull it up to check Dixon’s ribs, Dixon finally gets his wits about him, “shit, stop, I’m sorry- I’m fine Red, honest, just a little fuckin’ thrown there for a second.” 

 

 

“Yeah? You sure?” the younger man answers, pulling his hands away. Dixon doesn’t have enough time to be disappointed at the loss when the paramedics are at him too, and he just repeats the same thing he told Red; He’s fine, just a bit cold, didn’t hit his head. The young guy in front of him seems satisfied at his answer and tells him to keep the blanket, but try to return it to the hospital whenever, if he can. Dixon just nods when a thought occurs to him, “Hey, what about the other driver?” he asks, chest tight at forgetting about them until this point. The paramedic shrugs, “Looks like he had a stroke. He was taken in on the second unit just a minute ago. I think he’s gonna be okay.” And Dixon can breathe easy once again.

 

 

“Mr. Dixon,” a deep voice calls out; Dixon looks to see Abercrombie walking towards him. “heard you did a hell of thing just now,” he continues, pulling off his sunglasses and coming to a stop. Dixon pulls himself to his feet and debates removing the blanket. But it’s fuckin’ cold now, so it’ll have to stay.

 

 

“I, uh, yeah, I just sort of helped out,” he said weakly. He was still unsettled by the man; looking at him reminded him of the first time they’d met, right after he’d almost killed Red, and then immediately lost his job. So he didn’t think of the new chief too often if he didn’t have to.

 

Abercrombie looks as if he’s about to say more, but a quiet voice behind him interrupts what he was going to say.

 

 

“Excuse me,” it says. Dixon turns away from Abercrombie to see the mother standing there in her own blanket and with a bright sheet of gauze taped to her head. But she’s got a smile on her face that Dixon can’t help but return, Abercrombie be damned.

 

 

“They’re loading her up now, they say she’s probably gonna be fine. I just wanted to say thank you before we left- our own personal Superman,” and she pulls him into a tight hug as he stands there too stunned to say anything. He just gives her a smile and nod that she returns before going back to the rig, climbing in. Then it starts up and she’s gone.

 

 

He turns to where Abercrombie was standing and watching, and Dixon clears his throat; “Anything you needed from me?”

 

 

“No, Mr. Dixon, I think we’re good,” is the answer before a hand is held out. Dixon looks at the offered hand and takes it for a firm shake; “Good job,” Abercrombie hold his gaze a second longer then goes back to supervising the almost-dozen emergency service personnel milling about.

 

 

Dixon walks back to the side of the road where James and Red are waiting. They’ve got matching looks of disbelief on their faces as he draws near, and Red silently holds out his shoes. Taking them back, Dixon glances out at the commotion still going on; the wreakers and ambulances and cop cars milling about, and feels a pang of sadness that he’s not in there doing anything to help. 

 

 

He thinks maybe Red can read the look on his face, because he claps a hand on Dixon’s shoulder and says “Let’s go get you a change of clothes and go grab some food, yeah?”, then he gives a small smile, “Superman,” That breaks Dixon’s mood as he shoves Red away with a small grin. Food sounds good.

 

 

The rest of the day is pretty good, there’s even a blurb about the accident on the evening news, talking about how a woman and her young daughter were saved by a Good Samaritan after an elderly man had a stroke and lost control of his car. The woman and the girl were going to make a full recovery, and the man who’d had the stroke was getting the care he needed as his family made their way in from St. Louis. 

 

 

All in all, a pretty damn good day.

 

 

Two days after the accident he comes home to a voicemail from the Ebbing Police Department; Chief Abercrombie has requested he stop by for a discussion, and could he please let them know when he was available?

 

He dials the familiar phone number and tells them that he can be there day after tomorrow, 10:00am sharp.

 

 

On the day in question he stands outside at 9:50, trying to get over the nervousness he feels. He turns around to look at the sign shop; Red is standing in the window and raises a hand when he sees Dixon looking. Dixon raises his own hand back- he’d told Red and James about the meeting the night before, wanting to get their opinions on what it could be for. He was pretty sure he did a shit job of hiding his nervousness.

 

 

At the end of the night Red had clapped a hand on his shoulder, “Look, tomorrow’ll be fine. And if it ain’t just come on over and grab me at the shop; we can grab some beers while you bitch about it.” Dixon had shoved his smirking face away, but couldn’t deny it did make him feel better.

 

 

 

So now here he was, being led back past the people he used to call his coworkers (thought never his friends) who were staring at him actually pretty nicely, nodding even; looks like what he’d done had made its way through the ranks.

 

 

And now he’s sitting in an uncomfortable chair across from Abercrombie, who’d stood up and shook his hand when he walked in, but now was simply staring. After a second though he began talking;

 

 

“So, how are you? It take a lot out of you, being the hero?” The tone is odd; not mocking, but it seems to be digging for something in Dixon’s response. He has no idea how to take that, so he just shakes his head slowly, “No sir, a couple of bruises, but they healed right up,”

 

 

“Good, that’s good,” is all he gets back. They stare at each other for a minute, and now Dixon’s getting nervous. Did he do anything that might have gotten him in trouble? He doesn’t think so, but he’s on edge just in case.

 

 

But the other man just sighs and looks down at the folder that he brought in with him, opening it up;

 

 

“Graduated from the academy near the middle of the bottom of your class after repeating a year, a metric shit-ton of complaints about your conduct and drinking throughout your time here, accused of abusing a black man that had been in your custody, and finally fired after you threw an innocent young man out of a fuckin’ window with no remorse. That last bit comes from me, given that I was there to fuckin’ see it.”

 

 

Dixon doesn’t move. He has no idea what’s going on here, why Abercrombie asked to speak with him. Surely this wasn’t the reason; he wouldn’t call Dixon there just to shit on his past, and then send him on his merry way?

 

 

A moment later though Abercrombie closes the folder and pushes it to the side; he leans close, “Do you have any interest at all in being a cop, and not a fuck-up?”

 

 

“Yes sir,” he says automatically. 

 

 

Abercrombie stares hard at him;

 

 

“You know, I had an interesting conversation the day before yesterday about you. Was told that what you did at the bridge wasn’t a fluke; you really were changed in a good way. I was told I should consider giving you another chance.

 

 

“Now, stuff like that usually comes from a Momma or a lover trying to get her man back with a steady income, so it’s pretty easy for me to brush off. But imagine my surprise when for you it’s neither of those people, and instead is the same young man you tossed out onto a sidewalk about a year and a half ago? What the hell does it say about you that he was the one coming to me and telling me to give you another chance in my department?”

 

 

It feels like all of the air has been sucked straight out of the room. Red came here and vouched for him? To the chief of police?

 

 

Abercrombie is still waiting for an answer so Dixon licks his lips before saying, “Well, sir, I would think that that says more about him than it does about me. Sir.” 

 

 

 

“See, I would agree normally. But he was adamant that I hear what he had to say. I’m not gonna tell you a damn thing that I was told that day, but I will say it’s enough for me to sit across from you now and ask to hear your side of it. Why the fuck should I even consider giving you a badge and gun again?”

 

 

Dixon looks down at his hands, curled into fists on top of his legs. Why should he get another chance to be a cop? To be given power over other people, power he’d abused the first time around? He realizes that he truly doesn’t deserve another shot, but he says his piece. He doesn’t want Red’s testimony to his character to be wasted.

 

“I know who I’ve been in the past is an embarrassment to this department, it’s an embarrassment to me, too. But all I could think about during that crash and after was that I needed to help. I needed to make sure they were ok.” He takes a breath,

 

 

“I also know that doesn’t change a damn thing that I’ve done, doesn’t make up for it, but I would give anything to try and right at least some of those wrongs. I gotta live with what I’ve done and I’ll tell you, sir, it’s a pretty fuckin’ miserable thing that I know I deserve. Now I’m just trying to do some good, any way I can.”

 

He focuses on the desk, not wanting to see what emotion his words brought on; disgust or pity or anger or whatever the hell else it might be. 

 

“Six weeks,” is all the other man says. Dixon looks up, confused, and Abercrombie continues, “I’m giving you six weeks to convince me to take another chance on you. It’s not official, and if you quit the job you’ve got now but don’t get this one, I won’t be helpin’ you find another one. So I’m giving you six weeks. What do you say?”

 

 

Dixon’s mouth is dry as a fuckin’ desert. There’s a small bit of fear at having to quit the job he’s got with no guarantee he’ll have anything after the time is up, but-

 

 

“I say thank you, sir.”

 

*

 

 

Red’s leaning against the window when he walks out into the bright sunshine, still shell-shocked. He hurries across the street and is halfway up the stairs before he knows what he’s doing. There’s no one at the desk outside Red’s office, and Dixon is glad for it. He grips the doorframe as Red tries to hold back a smile, 

 

 

“So, what’d they want?” his composure breaks though and a bright smile makes his way out, and that’s it for Dixon. He rushes forward and throws his arms around the younger man, unable to speak.

 

 

Hands come up around his back to return the hug, and Dixon makes himself pull away before he does something stupid.

 

 

“You fuckin’ know what they wanted, you ass,” he says, and is surprised at the rough note in his voice. He sounds like he’s close to tears.

 

 

 

“So…?” Red prompts, still with a huge smile on his face.

 

 

“They’re giving me a six-week trial run, Abercrombie said. If I can prove to them that I’m not a fuckup or a drunk, he says he’ll make it official.”

 

 

Red claps him on the shoulder, “There you go, man! Six weeks, that’s nothing- congrats! Let’s grab some drinks to celebrate, on me,” and he turns to turn off the lamp at his desk and put away the papers he’d had spread out. 

 

 

“You ain’t buying me shit, you know that right?” Dixon shoves at Red when he gets a confused look, “I know what you did- you spoke to him on my behalf, and that’s the only reason he would even speak to me today. This is because of you, Red.”

 

 

“Why’d you do it?” Slips out unintentionally. He didn’t know why Red would ever vouch for him; they’re friends now but they weren’t before, and Red knew how he’d abused the power he’d been given previously. What the hell had he done to deserve a second chance?

 

 

“You weren’t always a good guy, I know that, okay? But you’ve changed. I’m not just talking about the car thing, really I’m not. For the past couple of weeks I’ve been meaning to go talk to him. You’re nicer, you don’t drink as much, you seem to care more- even about stupid shit like when you let me go on about Star Trek and just get us more beers. ” He shrugs again, “I just thought you’d deserved another chance to prove yourself.”

 

 

Now the moment is awkward, too emotional, and Dixon almost regrets asking. But Red just goes back to clearing up and turning out the lights,

 

 

“You ready?” He asks. It feels like he’s asking about more than just a couple of early- afternoon drinks. Dixon tries to look as confident as he can,

 

 

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write- thanks so much for the kudos and the comments, they mean a lot to me! Hopefully the next chapter will be out soon- I see this being 5-6 chapters long, so almost there!


	5. Chapter 5

The next couple of weeks are a whirlwind for Dixon; he gets his uniform, his badge, his gun, and he handles all three with delicate hands as he prepares for his first day back, a little apprehensive to what kind of reception he might get.

 

Once there though, he realizes he never needed to worry. After a few minutes of signing paperwork and getting his desk set up and his computer signed in, everyone else is already over it and moving on to whatever they’ve got on their plate for the shift. He guesses that enough time has gone by that they don’t consider it unfair for him to be one of them again, that what he did with getting the lady and her daughter out of the car is something they associate with him more than whatever shit he’d gotten into over a year ago.

 

 

So he’s back, he’s a cop again, kinda, and he’s able to quickly get back into his rhythm- though he knows that the main thing that’ll be different this time around is him. He’s not gonna let himself be what he was before, and with that in his head he actually feels confident during his days. He’s able to keep his cool at the drunks that spit on him and old ladies who yell at him. What would’ve set him off into a rage now just gets a chuckle and a ‘these fuckin’ people, am I right?’ look to whoever’s closest. Shit, he even gets his paperwork done on time. It’s really not that much work when he’s not wasting time complaining about how fuckin’ stupid it is.

 

 

One week ends and goes to the next, then the next, and he finds himself almost at the end of the fifth week, and he’s just been invited to beers at the sports bar by some of the other guys. Thompson, Stevens, and Brown might not be the smartest trio in the bunch, but they seemed sincere enough when they asked if he wanted to catch the Thursday night game.

 

 

Dixon shoots a quick text to Red to see if he might want to make it and before heading out, glancing at the shop window but not seeing a familiar silhouette in it. 

 

 

Red had been something of a guardian the last couple of weeks- that first day, right before he walked in and the nerves were making his stomach roll, he shot a look across the way to see a pale figure in the window. Red was there throwing Dixon a thumbs-up (which Dixon had responded by merrily flipping him the bird), and started doing it every morning after to the same answering gesture.

 

It was the best part of Dixon’s day.

 

Red did end up coming out, though not until after the game was done, and right after the last other hold-out had left because his wife texted demanding ‘he get his ass home’. Red was immediately apologizing for not answering Dixon’s text; he’d been out at a job, and a wreck along the one-lane road had turned an hour drive to over two and a half, and once he was finally back into town he’d gone home to drop off his car before walking over.

 

 

“Oh, sure man, like I’m gonna believe some shit like you’re out ‘working’” Dixon answered, but was already sliding a bottle his way and hoping he didn’t show the worry he’d been feeling when he hadn’t heard from the other man.

 

 

They continue on drinking and talking- Red’s work was still steady because of the Hayes’ billboards after all this time; seemed like every couple of weeks someone was coming to him who might’ve gone somewhere else if there hadn’t been any media attention- signs for out of town joints, or places too big to even think about hiring him normally. That was what happened this week, it looked like; Old Country Kitchen out along ’70 just asked him to mock-up a couple of designs for their reopening after a fire. They’d been in business over sixty years and they definitely had the means to get something made almost anywhere.

 

 

“That’s great, Red, really great, congrats on the business,” but Red didn’t seem as enthusiastic about it anymore. Or maybe he was just getting drunk? Dixon couldn’t remember how much Red had had in the couple hours they’d been sitting there. He was about to ask when Red spoke up in a quieter voice,

 

 

“Yeah, thanks, I just- I never really like the attention that comes in from those billboards. It just, you know, it just makes it harder to forget about ‘em,”

 

 

And _oh_ , that does make sense. Hard to forget about being blamed for fucking up the life of a man with cancer, for having Mildred fuckin’ Hayes basically bully you into keeping up with what caused it. Hard to forget about being smacked across the face and heaved over the edge of a windowsill.

 

 

He guesses those thoughts are written all over his face because Red just rolls his eyes and shoves at his shoulder, 

 

 

“I swear to fuckin’ god, Dixon, if you apologize again I’m gonna kick your ass,”

 

 

Dixon lets out a startled laugh at that, and after a second Red joins him, and they chuckle for a moment until Red looks at his watch and lets out a groan; 

 

 

“I gotta head home, man, it’s so fuckin’ late, shit.”

 

 

“Yeah, me too. I’ll see you later, okay?” Dixon says, and as Red pushes himself off of his stool and onto legs that were more than a bit unsteady a bolt of worry goes through Dixon; he ate a burger and fries during the game, but he doesn’t know if Red’s eaten anything to soak up his beer. That’s enough to have him sliding out of his own stool and joining the redhead out the door.

 

 

“Hey, you good? I’ll walk with you. I shouldn’t be drivin’ home, anyway.”

 

 

Red just nods; “Sure, thanks,”

 

 

Outside the moon is up and the steady stream of cars from earlier has become a trickle. The two of them don’t speak much as they walk. Red is seemingly in his own mind and Dixon is watching him- to make sure he doesn’t stumble or fall straight into the street, he tells himself. But Red’s fine; he picks his way along the gravel side of the road to their destination, a large house that’d been converted to apartments by the owner. 

 

 

It’s an old place that’s been maintained pretty well; three floors are connected to a single closed entryway and staircase, with each one its own apartment. Red’s got the unit in the middle, and it probably wouldn’t be too bad if the neighbors beneath him didn’t have a Pomeranian and the ones above him didn’t sound like they were moving furniture at random times.

 

 

Red interrupts his thoughts; “Hey, you comin’ up?”

 

 

He doesn’t sound anything other than curious, and Dixon forgets that he’d been planning to head home. He still has work in the morning, but hell, staying out a little later shouldn’t hurt.

 

 

“Yeah, yeah sure,” and they head up the cramped spiral staircase. It takes a second for Red to get the key in the lock and turn it, but then they’re in, and the younger man is walking towards the back and saying something about having to change “outta this fuckin’ vest, just a sec,” so Dixon ambles around to check out the place a little more.

 

 

For all they’ve hung out, he’s only been to Red’s a couple of times. The younger man had usually suggested Dixon’s home as it had more space than his ‘stupid apartment where you can’t hear a damn thing over the Davis’ fuckin’ yappy dog’, and Dixon was happy to agree. Without his Ma there in the house, talking his ear off and filling the entire place with her unavoidable presence, it felt too damn empty. He’d been fine with Red and James and sometimes Mildred filling the space, giving him a little shit about the projects scattered around but willing to help him all the same (well, except Mildred).

 

 

It’s a nice place, if small; the furniture is definitely second hand, but clean, and the décor is pretty tame and kinda classy. No bachelor pad-like beer posters or anything on the walls that you’d normally find in the home of a young, single man.

 

 

Red’s still in his bedroom so he stays close to the kitchen, debating if he wants a beer or if he really should be going. That’s when he notices a picture frame on the wall for the first time and steps in to see it closer.

 

 

It’s definitely Red, dressed in what looks like his Sunday best, smiling for the camera with two adults and a younger boy next to him. Given the resemblance between the four of them, Dixon would bet all the money he has that this is Red’s family, his parents and younger brother.

 

 

For all he knew about the shit that went down in Ebbing due to being a cop, Red’s family never was a part of it. Dixon can’t think of ever seeing the parents around, never had to go break up a fight because of ‘the fuckin’ younger Welby’s bein’ a shit’ like he’s had to with other younger siblings. He genuinely has no idea where any of them are, or even their names.

 

 

He feels a presence behind him and turns to Red standing there in a threadbare shirt and pajama pants, feet bare and face pink like he’d thrown water on it and rubbed it off hard with a towel. Dixon’s mouth goes dry at the sight and tries to school his expression to one that was neutral. Not a piece of shit snooping around and getting distracted by his friend’s sleepwear. 

 

 

But Red isn’t even looking at him; he’s focused on the picture that Dixon was staring at. He licks his lips before speaking;

 

 

“They’re in St. Louis now, I think. Or Chesterfield. I’m not too sure other than they’re east of here.”

 

 

His face is open, and Dixon knows that if he asks Red would tell him about them, would come clean as to why they’re gone and he’s stuck here in this shit town in this shit apartment but he doesn’t ask. If Red wanted to open up about them he could; but Dixon wasn’t about to pry. People deserved their privacy if they wanted it. Red deserved it.

 

 

“You don’t need to say nothin’; I know you don’t talk about them,”

 

 

“And I’m pretty sure they don’t talk about me, either,” He just shrugs and sits down on his couch. After a moment, Dixon takes a seat on the opposite side.

 

 

The mood is suddenly, noticeably somber, and Dixon curses himself for sticking his nose in Red’s business. He feels like he should apologize, but isn’t sure what to say. Red speaks before he gets the chance;

 

 

“It’s pretty much the same story everyone else with a shit family has, I guess. They weren’t happy I was never an athlete, never really someone they could brag about in school, so I think they hoped at least I would end up with a nice job, move to New York City or Los Angeles as a lawyer or fuckin’ cosmetic surgeon or some shit. They didn’t really understand that I was happy with the small jobs I got- I didn’t care that I wasn’t making boatloads. We were usually fighting about anything I did, pretty much every single day it seemed like. I moved out as soon as I could, and then they moved,”

 

 

He looks up to the ceiling before continuing,

 

 

“They told me the night before they left. They were already packed.”

 

 

That’s… really fuckin’ heavy to hear, but Dixon has the feeling that he didn’t get the whole story. Maybe some other time. For now, he has nothing to respond with, but he can’t just stare at the hurt look on Red’s face, so he tries anyway;

 

 

“My Ma just wanted me close after my Daddy died. Well. She did want me to be an electrician like he was. Hell, honestly, I did too. But we both figured out pretty quick that that probably wasn’t the path for me. Kept shockin’ the shit outta myself. I think you can still see the scorch marks in the hall bathroom from when I tried to rewire it.”

 

 

Though the story wasn’t even all that funny, it has the desired effect of breaking the tension in the room and they’re both giggling helplessly on their respective ends of the couch but leaning towards each other; when they catch their breath they’re almost shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle, just sitting- the TV hadn’t even been turned on for background noise. 

 

 

“Thanks,” Red says beside him, and Dixon turns to say ‘no problem’ or whatever when he sees how close they are to one another and the words are instantly forgotten. 

 

 

Red just blinks over at him slowly, like a cat, and Dixon’s looking from his eyes up to the small scar near his hairline, before he can’t control himself anymore and his gaze falls to Red’s lips like it’s been doing for months without his permission.

 

 

The urge to move even closer is rising; his fingers twitch from where they rest on his legs, and he darts a tongue out to wet his lips

 

 

All he wants right at this moment is to lean into the man sitting next to him, to feel the soft cotton of a t-shirt under his hands and push up underneath it to warm, smooth skin.

 

 

With a start he feels movement, but it’s not him; Red’s slowly closing the gap between them, and God, Dixon wants, he wants so fucking bad. His hand starts to rise up to place on a smooth neck, or maybe to comb through short hairs at the back of a head, he hasn’t decided yet.

 

 

Red’s eyes flutter closed and with a start Dixon feels a panic in chest like a damn heart attack, and it cuts through his desire- he needs to get out of there.

 

 

He pushes off the couch abruptly and walks straight to the door without turning around; he doesn’t think he could handle whatever expression is on Red’s face right now. To the doorframe he says,

 

 

“I should go, gotta work in the morning. Lock up behind me, okay?” He doesn’t wait to hear the reply as he runs down the stairs without trying to seem like he’s running.

 

 

On the gravel road outside his heart is still beating hard. What the hell was he doing? Red was sad and exhausted and at least a little buzzed, and Dixon’s only thought was about how much he wanted to kiss him; wanted to grab his skinny hips and pull him onto Dixon’s lap.

 

 

It was pathetic, and he’s already ashamed at what he knows he’s going to use the image in his head for once he gets in bed tonight.

 

 

Sighing, he puts his head down and walks faster. He’s got a ways to go before he’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost to the end! Thanks so much for the support and patience, hope to have the last chapter out soon!


	6. Chapter 6

 

The last Friday comes and goes. He starts off the day nervous as shit, but it passes as soon as he walks in and gets working. He gets his paperwork done from the DUI on Tuesday, goes out on a call about a suspicious figure that ends up being just a birdwatcher too close to someone’s backyard, and doesn’t even notice the clock ticking down to five until he hears a “Dixon, my office- now,” and realizes that’s it.

 

 

 

Walking from his desk to Abercrombie’s office takes both forever and no time at all, then he’s sitting back in that same uncomfortable seat as he did six weeks ago, trying not to look as shit-scared as he feels.

 

 

 

Abercrombie, thankfully, doesn’t waste any time; “You’ve done better police work in the past six weeks than your file says you did in three years. I’m going to pray to fuckin’ God it wasn’t a fluke.” He stands up and Dixon scrambles to stand as well, looking down at the hand being held out. He takes it.

 

 

“Welcome back to the force, Officer Dixon. Now get the hell out of here.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Of course he gets dragged to the bar by some of the other cops; Dixon thinks at this point he and Red and James have paid for the damn place with how often they’re there. Despite the awkwardness between them he still texts Red to tell him the news, and that he knew where to find Dixon. A minute later he got an answer that Red was already on his way to pick up James, and that they’d be there.

 

 

 

They hadn’t talked much over the weekend- Dixon finished up the guest bedroom all day Saturday and Red was at the shelter Sunday, then the last week of his trial run was on him and he couldn’t really focus on anything else.

 

 

 

 

Dixon was glad for the distance. What had almost happened at Red’s apartment had been occupying his mind every fuckin’ second and he needed the time to think. So outside of throwing a finger to the shape in the window when he saw it, he didn’t try to initiate contact.

 

 

 

He tried to approach the situation as Willoughby would’ve wanted him to; though, he admits, even if the man were still alive there was no way in hell Dixon would be askin’ his advice about what to do with his growing attraction to a man who at one time he tried to seriously injure.

 

 

And it was attraction; he was being a damn idiot for not realizing it for what it was. He didn’t need to get laid, didn’t need some pretty little thing with nice tits and a cute laugh to focus on instead.

 

 

 

He wanted a fuckin’ skinny-ass redhead with long limbs and love for ugly paisley shirts.

 

 

 

Finally letting himself put a name to what he was feeling actually did make Dixon less confused about the whole thing, less on-edge, and he felt like he could handle himself around the other man; not act like an idiot when they were close.

 

 

 

 

Of course that goes right out the fuckin’ window when he’s going to say hello to James and Red once they get to the bar and sees the latter has a shiner on his left eye.

 

 

 

It’s not bad, but it’s enough to makes Dixon forget about feeling awkward at the whole ‘attraction’ thing and go straight to the kind of anger he hasn’t felt in over a year.

 

 

 

“What the _fuck,_ Red? Who the fuck did this?”, and though it’s clearly several days old, Dixon’s looking around the bar for someone to punch. He doesn’t miss the look Red and James exchange, but he’s too fuckin’ angry to care.

 

 

 

 

“Hey, hey, cool it Rambo- I got caught with a crate when I was at the shelter Sunday. Some guys were unloading a truck and I wasn’t looking where I was going, pretty much ran straight into the corner of it,” Red’s blushing, but doesn’t seem like he’s nervous or nothing, so Dixon knows he’s telling the truth and tries to shake off his reaction. James speaks up from where he’s sitting at the small side table;

 

 

“I told him if he did something that stupid again he would have to wear a helmet to pool night. Much too dangerous for him, apparently,”

 

 

 

“Ha-ha, assholes. Laugh about it if you want, I’m gonna grab a fuckin’ beer, okay?” and Red pushes off into the crowd.

 

 

 

One of the cops who’d come along (Brown, he remembers) sets a beer down for him and claps him on the back in congratulations, along with a couple of the others guys. Dixon takes it in stride, saying thanks, that he appreciates it, he’s looking forward to serving the community, all that shit until they’re gone and it’s just him and James.

 

 

 

 

“You know, I told him he’d have to explain that to you,” the shorter man says, noticeably not meeting Dixon’s eye and looking around the full room at the townsfolk milling about with the cops; out of their uniforms but distinguishable by how they hold themselves. His actual coworkers now, Dixon realizes with a start.

 

 

 

 

“What, his eye? Yeah he’d have to fuckin’ explain it to me. You don’t think you’d want to know what happened if you met your buddy out for drinks and he’s got a big fuckin’ shiner on his face?” Dixon’s confused at the knowing look sent his way at that; what was weird about his reaction? If someone had bruised up Red, he’d damn well wanna know their name. He could figure the rest out himself.

 

 

 

 

James takes a sip of his drink and shakes his head as they fall silent. The intake of breath next to him says James decided not to leave it at that, and he honestly wants to know what the fuck the man was saying, but a commotion behind them stops him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s a shout, “shut the hell up, everyone!” and the clinking of a steak knife against a beer bottle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Red; tall frame half-up on a barstool, holding his drink up with one hand while his other keeps his balance on the bar behind him. And apparently he’s decided to say a few words;

 

 

“Don’t worry everyone, I ain’t about to give some long-ass speech that keeps you from your drinks too long. Let’s get down to it; the reason we’ve all made the sacrifice to come get drunk on a Friday night-“

 

 

 

He turns to where Dixon is standing and holds up his beer bottle before continuing;

 

 

 

“Not everyone gets a second chance. And even fewer make somethin’ out of the ones they’re given. Jason Dixon, you’ve proven to be one of those few. Congrats, Officer.”

 

 

 

Dixon can feel the unmistakable prickling of tears in his eyes as glasses are raised around him. Jesus H Christ, even James has his beer in the fuckin’ air. He tips his own glass with as much dignity as he can towards Red, and everyone drinks. People clap him on the back afterwards, telling him congratulations, they can’t believe how great he’s done, he deserves it, and he accepts it all with an easy, “Man, thank you, it means a lot, really.”

 

 

 

It feels like he says it fifty fuckin’ times, and he has to get out of there for a second, has to breathe outside in the cold air to calm down. So when he shakes off the hands and pushes past the crowd, saying he’ll be right back, just to the bathroom, I promise I ain’t fuckin’ runnin’ out on y’all, he takes a right instead of a left and goes out the back door instead of to the men’s room.

 

 

The frigid wind against his face is a welcome difference to the stuffy inside and Dixon inhales deeply, relishing the slight pain against his throat.

 

 

The howling wind covers up the sound of the door opening behind him, so he’s spooked when a voice starts talking; “Hope I didn’t embarrass you too much.”

 

 

“Jesus Christ!” he twirls around to find Red behind him, and his shock is gone completely. He shoves at the other man’s shoulder, “You scared the hell outta me, you shit,”

 

 

Red grins at him, “Sorry about that. Had to make sure you didn’t hate me or nothin’ for standing up and speaking. You ran out pretty fast,” as he’s talking Red leans against the wall in an oddly familiar gesture. Dixon has to look away for a second when he remembers why; it’s the same pose from his daydream a fuckin’ lifetime ago, when they were sharing a smoke.

 

 

He can tell he’s been quiet too long by Red’s grin sliding off his face, replaced with concern, so he speaks quickly;

 

 

 

“No, honestly just kinda thrown. That-that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me or about me. I really fuckin’ appreciate it, Red.” He tries to smile and guesses he succeeds as Red smiles back. The younger man puts out a hand;

 

 

 

“You deserve it, Officer,”

 

 

 

Dixon has to step in closer to grab Red’s offered hand, shaking it firmly, trying to convey his gratitude without having to say any more of it. His luck he’d probably start crying like a damn baby.

 

 

 

So they shake hands in silence, and the thought floats into Dixon’s head of what Willoughby would say if he could see him now; it makes Dixon smile.

 

 

He tries to move back once they’re done, but a hand reaches out to grab a shoulder.

 

 

 

“Hey, wait- just wait. I think we need to talk, yeah?” Red’s face is dead serious, and the light smile Dixon had slips off his face. He should’ve expected this. Red was probably sick of him being so goddamned weird around him, so Dixon doesn’t try to insult him by pretending not to know what he could want to talk about.

 

 

 

“Okay, yeah. Tonight? You sure you don’t wanna just get drunk and do it another time?”

 

 

 

“Not at all. I’ll need to take James home whenever I leave, but I’ll head over to your place after, okay?”

 

 

 

 

Dixon nods and Red releases his shoulder before they walk back in the bar without another word spoken between them. Dixon tries to hide the tension within him when they’re back with the raucous crowd.

 

 

 

 

He declines drink after drink, and he sees Red doing the same. About one in the morning people start heading out, and he catches the other man’s eye. Red nods at him, and peels off to grab James. Dixon doesn’t watch the two of them walk out.

 

 

 

 

He’s held up a lot longer than he expected, still getting congratulations and handshakes, so as he pulls up the driveway at home he isn’t surprised that Red arrives right after him and parks before he’s out of his seat.

 

 

 

 

Gravel crunches behind him as he goes up the porch stairs and puts the key in the lock. He closes his eyes for a second to steel himself before turning it, and then they’re walking inside.

 

 

 

 

*

 

The light switch by the entry is the latest casualty what’s gone from a redecoration to a renovation, so Dixon walks into the dark room and towards the one by the kitchen. Behind him he can hear Red curse as he almost trips over the paint cans and other building detritus that were piled up by the door; another project for another day. Dixon is close enough that he can turn quickly, reaching out a hand to try and help the younger man. He catches a flailing elbow and holds tight until Red can get his feet back under him,

 

 

 

“Careful- I’m starting to think that the little man had the right idea about helmets, given that shiner you’ve managed to get yourself,” Despite his lack of control being the very reason they’re here and about to have a really fuckin’ awkward conversation, he can’t help reaching out a hand out to Red’s face to turn it towards the light coming from the porch. In the dim glow the bruising isn’t terribly noticeable, but Dixon can still see it- and the small rush of residual anger from it drives him to forget himself,

 

 

 

“I’m serious though, you fuckin’ tell me if someone did this, okay?” The ridiculousness of the statement, coming from him especially, makes him wish he’d just bit his damn tongue. Red must’ve thought the same thing because he snorts, “Why, is no one allowed to bruise me up but you?”

 

 

 

It was completely fair of him to say, but Dixon has to admit that it still fucking stings. Chastised, he starts to pull his hand away to go finally turn on the light like he’d been meaning to when Red reaches out to grab it and put it back on his bruised cheek. He flattens Dixon’s hand so his fingertips on Red’s face become his fingers, his palm, until they’re standing there in the dark; Dixon’s hand cupping Red’s cheek, Red’s hand soft but firm over his.

 

 

 

The smirk he’d had when he called Dixon out on his hypocrisy was gone from his face; replaced instead with one that was almost remorseful- as if he actually had something to be sorry for. Dixon just lets himself be moved and doesn’t try to pull his hand away from where it was placed, waiting to see what Red will do.

 

 

 

They stand there for what feels like ages, just breathing in the silence that was surprisingly not uncomfortable. But then in a quick, jerky motion Red pushes even closer, until they’re chest-to-chest.

 

 

 

Dixon is shocked still by the face just inches from his own, by the spicy-clean scent of him that he didn’t notice before. That and the feeling of Red’s body heat makes him feel light-headed and disoriented, but he’s able to notice that his fingers are slightly shaking from where they’re caught under Red’s palm.

 

 

 

“I didn’t mean it,” Red says quietly, almost a whisper. Dixon’s shaking his head before he’s even done talking,

 

 

 

“You can mean it if you want to. You can, you can- shit, I don’t know, you can do anything you goddamn want to me. You can punch me right now; I promise I won’t try to block it or anything.” Dixon’s babbling, he knows- they’re still so close, his hand still holding the younger man’s cheek, warming from the contact.

 

 

 

But Red doesn’t push away or haul back to hit him. He just blinks, his eyes sad. At this distance Dixon is almost cross-eyed trying to look at him, trying to keep the eye contact that he can tell is really fucking important right now.

 

 

 

“Dixon, I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says before slowly leaning down, leaning in, and holy fuck this can’t be happening, this can’t be real, the kid must’ve gone and punched him, knocked him unconscious and this here is a dream, one of the ones he’s been having these last few months. That’s the only explanation Dixon has before he feels the slightest brush of dry lips against his own. His eyes close at the contact but he opens them when it’s over to find Red staring at him with a questioning look.

 

 

 

He glances between the younger man’s eyes then down to his lips; it’s the only answer he’s able to give right now, and he’s tilting his head to lean in with Red meeting him halfway for another soft kiss, then another. Dixon’s eyes are kept shut now, just feeling. If this was another fuckin’ dream then at least it could be a good one.

 

 

 

His palm slides back from Red’s cheek to his jaw, and his free hand goes to a skinny waist. The hand Red had kept over his trails down his arm for a second, and then he’s bringing both arms in to clutch at the front of Dixon’s shirt, pulling him even closer.

 

 

 

It goes on like that for a few minutes; the kisses getting longer but still fairly chaste, their mouths just barely open, when Dixon pulls Red’s lower lip into his mouth and scrapes at it lightly with his teeth. There’s a gasp, and Dixon’s about to pull away to make sure that was okay when Red kisses him, hard, pushing his tongue into Dixon’s mouth as a dam breaks between them.

 

 

 

They’re kissing urgently now, open-mouthed, and Dixon’s arm goes around to Red’s lower back to hold him even closer until they’re pressed together knee-to-chest, standing just inside the dark living room. The fingers clutching the front of his plaid shirt loosen, instead going to the top of it. Dixon can feel the buttons being undone, and is reminded of the night he buried his Ma, of Red’s gentleness, his kindness. The memory is like a bucket of fuckin’ ice water, and has him turning his head away from Red’s searching mouth, reaching up to hold pale fingers still. They’re both panting into the space between them, and Red tries to lean forward and press his lips to Dixon’s throat instead, but Dixon pulls from that as well, reluctantly taking a step back and holding the other man away from him.

 

 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Red asks, and his breathless voice is something Dixon knows he won’t ever forget.

 

 

“We shouldn’t do this, Red,” he answers, looking down at the hollow of Red’s throat so he doesn’t have to see the confusion on the other face, the disappointment.

 

 

“Why not?”

 

 

“Well, I mean, for one thing- we’re still in the fuckin’ doorway,”

 

Red finally looks around at where they’d stopped- the door hasn’t even been locked behind him- and lets out a snort before he leans back into Dixon’s space, talking against his lips,

 

 

“Then take me to your room,” And oh, fuck, that’s the hottest goddamn thing he’s ever had anyone say to him, and he groans against the wave of desire that hits him.

 

 

 

But he holds firm with as much resolve as he can, moving away as much as possible while still holding tight to Red’s fingers clutched between them.

 

 

“You don’t fuckin’ want this, Red, you don’t want a fucked-up guy with just a shit house and a shit past to his name okay? And, I mean, I know I called you a faggot too many times to count, but that mean you actually are one. You don’t gotta do any of this,”

 

 

Red’s face clears as Dixon goes on, and by the end of it he’s dropped his head. Dixon can feel that he’s laughing into their joined hands.

 

 

 

 

“I’ve been trying to fuckin’ do this for _weeks,_ you asshole,” he looks up and into Dixon’s eyes and says truthfully;

 

 

 

 

 

“I always thought you were hot, you know. But you were enough of a jackass for me to ignore it, not care about it. And then you apologized, and you kept apologizing, and you meant it. Once it clicked that you’d actually changed and it wasn’t just an act, that was it for me;

 

 

 

“I had to try really fuckin’ hard not to show anything ‘cause I thought you wouldn’t want to be around me anymore. But then you started lookin’ at me like you might be thinking the same things, that you might, you know, maybe want me, too.

 

 

 

“I’d finally talked myself into it, that night sitting on my couch, you could tell, right? I thought I’d been reading the signals you were sending me. But you ran outta there like a damn maniac and I felt like shit, thinking I was wrong. Thinking I’d gone ahead and ruined the pretty great friendship we had goin’ there,”

 

 

 

“But then tonight happened, and the way you looked at me when you thought someone had bruised me up… I’m pretty sure I wasn’t wrong, was I? This right now isn’t a huge shock to you, I can tell that at least.”

 

 

 

Red had been moving in again as he gave his little speech, and Dixon didn’t stop him. By the time he asked the question was right up close, but he didn’t try to lean in. He just waited for Dixon to let him know where to take this thing. Dixon could tell that if he were to pull away, say that Red was wrong about everything, Red would accept it and would leave him alone, not bring it up again.

 

 

 

 

Dixon couldn’t even bear the fuckin’ thought of that happening, and he knew that it was his turn to be honest, to put himself out there and tell the damn truth finally.

 

 

 

He shakes his head, “no, you weren’t wrong,” and is the one to close the distance between them, to press their lips together for a slow, deep kiss. It’s less frantic than before, but no less heated.

 

 

 

 

 

He releases Red’s hands and they go back to the buttons on his shirt, but they don’t try to open any others. Red stops kissing him to murmer, “is this okay?”, and it’s more than okay, fuckin’ hell, if Red stops now Dixon feels like he might actually die.

 

 

He doesn’t say any of that, just nods, and soon his overshirt is open and being pushed down his shoulders. As Red runs his hands over Dixon’s thin shirt underneath, Dixon reaches for the vest in front of him to get to work on it.

 

 

But the tiny buttons refuse to cooperate, and he pulls away from Red’s mouth with a growl and a “god _dammit_ ” that gets him a snort, and a “here, you caveman, I got it.”

 

 

Red undoes the buttons on his vest, and then goes to his ridiculous shirt and opens that too. Once he’s down to just a wifebeater covering his slim frame Dixon moves back in, running his hands down Red’s sides to the hem but stopping without going underneath.

 

 

For all his eagerness these last few minutes and his growing feelings these past few months, this is a pretty big fuckin’ deal. The slowing of the momentum lets Dixon get back into his own head, something he was trying to avoid. It just feels so goddamn surreal- he doesn’t make out with a fuckin’ _guy_ in his living room, doesn’t get a hard-on from some kissing in a dark room.

 

 

 

But it’s not just a random guy though, it’s Red, and he wants him so fuckin’ much he can feel it in his _teeth_. It’s almost overwhelming.

 

 

 

Warm hands drop onto his shoulders and drag upwards to his neck, tugging at Dixon’s face until he’s looking slightly up into Red’s eyes.

 

 

“You ever been with a guy before?” his voice isn’t judgmental at all, but Dixon can still feel the shame and the blush in his cheeks,

 

 

 

“not one that I thought of as a fuckin’ friend or nothin’,” Dixon says.

 

 

 

If he’s surprised, Red does a good job of hiding it;

 

 

“We don’t gotta do this tonight, you know. We can slow it down or stop right now and I can go home.”

 

 

But Dixon’s shaking his head before Red’s even done talking, and his hands grip the waist in front of him even harder,

 

 

 

“I don’t want you to leave, I just- fuck, I just. I don’t even fuckin’ know,” he feels like an idiot, like a goddamned virgin. What he wants is whatever Red is willing to give him, but that sounds too fucking pathetic for him to say out loud.

 

 

 

 

Slowly Red grabs the bottom of his own shirt and pulls it up and over his head, then reaches just as slowly to Dixon’s. After a quick dart of his eyes to check the expression on Dixon’s face, Red drags the material up, and Dixon raises his arms to avoid getting caught in the material.

 

 

 

They’re both standing there half-dressed, and Dixon knows that he should be thinking that it’s awkward, but all he can focus on is the man in front of him; the trail of red hair he wants to scratch his fingers through, the pink nipples he needs to get his mouth on, all of it.

 

 

But he doesn’t touch or kiss or lick; he just waits to see what the younger man will do first. Dixon’s never seen this look on Red’s face before; his eyes are half-lidded and his pale cheeks are darkened with a blush. It strikes Dixon that that’s actual hunger in Red’s face as he looks down at Dixon’s bare chest; hunger for _him_. Dixon’s breath starts to quicken again, and he’s finally made a decision.

 

 

He places his palms just below Red’s ribcage and slides them up smooth skin. He grabs Red’s face and kisses him, hard, before pulling away to walk down the hall, taking them to his room.

 

 

*

 

It’s quick, this first time between them, it’s really fuckin’ quick; Dixon had been ready to go for ages and Red doesn’t seem to be faring much better.

 

 

They’re able to get naked and on the bed, at least. And when Dixon rolls on top and grabs the hard length beneath him, Red’s arching back and throaty gasp almost finishes him right then, but he’s able to hold on until he feels the quiver in the thighs wrapped around his waist.

 

 

The look on Red’s face as he comes is something that Dixon can’t believe he’s been given the right to see, and he can’t help but push a biting kiss to the mouth beneath him as he follows the other man over the edge.

 

 

He collapses on top of Red and they lay there panting for a few moments before Dixon silently rolls off to get a washcloth.

 

 

Once they’re clean and he climbs back into the bed Dixon feels a moment of panic; What the hell do they do now? Can Dixon touch him? Is he going to leave?

 

 

Those worries fade as Red rolls half on top of Dixon; a slim thigh thrown over both of Dixon’s own.

 

 

“This okay?” he asks hesitantly. It makes Dixon smile and wrap an arm around his waist to pull him closer.

 

 

“This is fucking perfect.”

 

 

*

 

The next morning Dixon wakes to a kiss on the side of his neck and Red rolling out of bed and going to the hall bathroom.

 

 

 

He stretches languidly as he hears the shower start up. A thought comes to his mind about getting up and joining Red in the small stall; the thought of him naked and wet and slippery with soap almost enough to get Dixon going again, thinking of getting to do what they didn’t have the time or energy to do last night.

 

Before he fully decides to get up though, a knock on the front door sounds through the house. He’s up with his boxers on and pulling a t-shirt over his head in a second, no idea who the fuck would be at his door at 9:00am on a Saturday. No one except-

 

Mildred.

 

She’s standing on his porch much like she had been back the day after his Ma’s funeral, a bakery box in her hand rather than a Tupperware being the only difference.

 

 

“The hell you doing here?”

 

“Hi Dixon, congrats on bein’ a real cop again, oh, you’re welcome, I did bring you some donuts from Charlene’s, yes, I know they’re your favorite,” and like before she shoves him right out of the way and goes to the kitchen, dropping the box of donuts on the table.

 

 

Dixon can hear the shower going, so Mildred probably can as well, and he’s quietly panicking as she putters with the coffee pot, filling it with water and grounds and setting it to brew.

 

 

“Hold on a sec,” he says, “I was about to take a fuckin’ shower when you came bargin’ in. I need to turn off the damn water,” and doesn’t wait for her reply before practically running to the bathroom. Red’s reaching to turn off the water anyway, and thankfully gets the hint when Dixon opens the curtain with a finger to his lips.

 

  
“Mildred’s here, she brought donuts or some shit. I’ll keep her busy if you just go back to my room or something, yeah?” he breathes, talking so softly that he’s relieved when his remarks just get rolled eyes and a nod. He leans in for a quick kiss before returning to the kitchen.

 

 

Mildred has a couple of mugs out and starting to pour coffee in one of them;

 

 

 

“How do you take your coffee?”

 

 

“What? Uh, black, two sugars,”

 

 

“And Red?” she keeps her back turned.

 

 

Dixon feels like his fuckin’ heart stops for a beat, but he tries to hide it;

 

 

“What? I don’t fuckin’ know, Mildred, why the hell’d you even ask me that for?”

 

 

 

She just looks over her shoulder at him with an eyebrow up,

 

 

 

“You know, if you were wanting to pretend that Welby ain’t here and that he didn’t spend the night, you might not’ve had him park right out front,”

 

 

A voice in the hallway answers exactly how Dixon was planning to;

 

 

 

“ _Fuck,_ _”_

_*_

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Real Life got crazy and left little time for anything else. Thanks so much for the support!! This was the first fic in a loooong time for me, and I really appreciated the feedback and kind words- they were incredibly motivating. I hope you enjoy this last chapter, and as always, CC is very welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything here is fictional and based off of characters that I do not own any right to.
> 
> First fic in over a decade, first on this site- CC very welcome and every mistake is mine.
> 
> Title from "Ashes" by Celine Dion


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